tell me something
by sorde
Summary: "Everything feels like a blessing, truthfully, but this... This feels like a miracle." The ways in which they are different, the way in which they're better, and the ways the season heals them. Sequel to 'hope for the night' and 'speech that is new.'


The third in a short little series of Castle Christmases. The journey starts with _hope for the night,_ then _speech that is new_ , which don't really need to be read first. All you need to know is: Castle and Beckett give each other books on Christmas Eve, under the guise of giving each other an experience.

Takes place post-series, present day. Spoilers for everything, but mostly and specifically for the series finale. Title and lyrics, still, from The Head and the Heart's "Winter Song."

* * *

 **tell me something.**

A post-series story: the ways in which they are different, the way in which they're better, and the ways the season heals them.

* * *

 _has time driven our season away?  
_ _cause that's the way it seems_

The thing about everything taking more effort is that it means that everything _means_ more, and Kate Beckett, truthfully, has grown tired of the idea. At first, in the early days of her physical therapy, standing up by herself was considered to be her greatest accomplishment, and it was as infuriating then as it is now, when she gets applauded (when she feels, pathetically, _proud_ ) for walking, back straight, to the kitchen table.

It's not exactly worse than her first shooting. You'd think that two gunshot wounds would make it twice as bad, but it's the same pain, the same rehab, the same I-almost-died rush, just _more_. Everything's amplified. And she's no better at dealing with it now then she was then.

Except, of course, that everything is different. She never went to the cabin to recover, and she's never alone. No matter how badly she may have craved loneliness in the early days of her recovery, her weak heart couldn't stand being out of Castle's line of sight, for his sake. For her sake. For everyone's sake, really.

And it's no better now. No matter how pathetic _she_ feels when Castle beams at her as she manages to get to the table, she still feels it—that rush of pride—when he does the dishes after dinner. His work is slow and methodical, trying his best not to overexert himself—he loses his breath so easily now, since his lung collapsed in the back of the ambulance, since he had to be rushed into surgery not once, when they first reached the hospital, but twice, after a bout of pneumonia made him collapse, again, in their living room just weeks after they got home.

Seven months. And everything's different.

"Hey, Castle?" she pipes up, twisting carefully on the couch so she can face him fully instead of just looking at him from the periphery. It's a little painful to twist, but it's not unmanageable.

"Yuh?" He looks up from the dishes, that little crease between his eyebrows as endearing as it's ever been. Adorable.

She cocks her head to the side. "You look good."

His chest puffs out a little at that, the corner of his mouth twitching up as he finishes the dishes. It's been different lately, between them; something shifted, and not when the gunshot went off. Long before that, when she walked out the door—they didn't know it then, and it's not even clear now, but them, their relationship, this loft... everything feels different.

It doesn't help that it's been seven months, that she's still not back at work, that physical therapy is just—scientifically—harder now than it was then, now that it's two gunshot wounds and she's nearing forty and she's defied death so many times. Things feel different because they _are_ different. First, it was just Castle not working with her, and then working with her a little but only tangentially, and then _her_ not working at all—the foundation of their relationship, the reasons they started this whole thing up, have all but crumbled beneath them.

It's not bad. It's just different.

They're making their way.

When the dishes are done, Castle half-dries his hands on a dishcloth and half on his pants as he shuffles (back straight, though—that stupid burst of pride in her chest flares brightly) back to the couch, sitting down gingerly with the groan of a man twenty years his senior.

A palm falls heavy on her thighs and she shifts, taking her elbows and arms off the back of the couch slowly to sink her back into her husband. He hums in approval, and she remembers that she still needs to shop for him, that she has no ideas for a Christmas present and, more importantly, for a Christmas book. She's been stressing about it for so long that it's all background noise, falling into the sounds of stressing about Castle and about making it back to the precinct and about their health.

It's all background noise, a constant presence.

They don't talk. Just listen to the quiet whistle of the winter night.

It's not bad. It's just different.

/

The Christmas decorations are a little less extravagant this year. Partially by necessity; it takes more work to raise their arms above their heads, and when Castle starts to wheeze she makes him sit down, and then when she hisses sharply through her teeth he makes _her_ sit down and tries to get back up to help her sit down, and she tugs him back down to the couch and hisses again and it's a vicious cycle that ends with a lot of giggling sheepishly into the couch cushions, both on their knees in front of the couch and trying to stand back up.

Alexis helps a little when she visits, but something about tamer, quieter decorations ends up feeling right. It's a lot of white and blue, hints of red and green in Castle's office, a simple strand of light here and some small knick-knacks there. It takes them a good while to finally pluck up the energy to go out and get a tree, though, and the space feels sparse, incomplete without it.

Well, okay, "go out" is a bit generous. They make it downstairs after a long day of PT, call one of their drivers who takes them out of the city to a little Christmas tree farm that Castle had researched the year before and remembered. Kate's a little weary about having to _walk_ to find a tree, but Castle's enthusiasm is never not infectious so she's kept her mouth shut.

It's a long drive, and they gear themselves up for a minute before crawling out of the car and onto the glittering snowy paths. There's a cabin to the right for hot chocolate or apple cider (or, Kate prays, a good cup of coffee), but there's also a beautiful horse-drawn carriage... awaiting them? It's certainly just _standing_ there, but her husband ends up walking up and shaking the driver's hand so, presumably, this is all planned.

"I researched," Castle reminds her at a murmur, as though she would have ever expected him to forget that they can't walk ten feet without taking a break.

"I love horses," she whispers back. He chuckles, deep and rich, into her ear, taking her hand and placing it into the crook of his arm.

"I know."

He helps her, a little pitifully, into the back of the sleigh, tries to get in himself and ends up, face flaming, getting assistance from the driver. Apparently undeterred, however, he still situates a blanket over both their laps, fussing over her like he can't stop and it's all... so much. So good. How she loves him.

Kate leans over to kiss his cheek but ends up almost shrieking in glee when the sleigh starts moving, feels her face flushed and red already from the bite of the cold. It burns in her bones, somewhere, but it's all peripheral; they're _healing_ , they're in the middle of something out of a freaking _movie_ , with the glistening trees and the quiet _whoosh_ of the sleigh, and, well. They're here.

Everything feels like a blessing, truthfully, but this... This feels like a miracle.

/

They do end up picking out a tree, and it's a bit on the smaller side only because it's nearing the end of the season (well, tree season, anyway—somehow, winter seems to just be getting started) and Castle looks at her pitifully when their driver notes that it probably won't end up coming home with anyone.

When they get back, they do end up at the chalet while the tree gets loaded into the car. Kate feels vaguely bad about sitting inside, in the toasty warmth of the chalet, while someone else does the work she should be doing, but. Well. It's been long enough; she's used to it. Helping at this point would end with Castle trying to help _her_ , and they'd up giggling into the metaphorical couch cushions again while the driver of both the car and sleigh try to help them up.

So she sits in the chalet with (grudgingly) a truly wonderful cup of hot chocolate between her hands.

Their hats are on the table in front of them, cheeks still pink from the cold outside, and it's been so—quiet, really. The snow outside and the glistening trees and the beautiful horses and... This day has been perfect. As perfect as it gets, just her and Castle and the biting cold and she feels so thankful. And it's quiet. Not bad, just— "We're different," she murmurs aloud, and Castle's eyes shoot up to hers, looking faintly (adorably) like a deer.

"Well, we did get shot. In our home." he says, and it's probably supposed to be a joke but it's also just so _true._ She nods, acknowledging that as she watches the snow fall out the window over his shoulder. "Kate," he murmurs, and it's her turn to look at him. "Is it bad?"

"What?"

"That we're different." His head cocks to one side—the right, like he's nervous but can't quite bring his whole body to lean. "This time last year, we were pretending to be separated."

"Two years ago you were kicked out of the precinct," she points out.

"The year before that, we were just engaged."

"And nine years ago, we'd never met." Well, mostly true. Castle tends to get touchy when she mentions that they in fact _did_ meet, and that he's just forgotten. As though it's his fault that she's blurred into a sea of a thousand unremarkable fans over the years, as though he was supposed to _notice_ her specifically and then remember her for eternity. She sighs. "No, it's not bad. I just... wanted to put it out there."

"That we're different?"

"Yes."

He very carefully puts his mug down, clasping his hands over hers on her mug. "Kate, we're recovering from gunshot wounds. From a year-long conspiracy that put our life on hold. Things _are_ different, and they should be."

She huffs out a sigh at that, eyes on their hands. "Is it weird that I don't feel like we're on hold anymore, though?"

"Well, we're not separated. Or chasing a criminal."

"No, no, I know, but... Even though we don't really go anywhere or do anything, just regular therapy and physical therapy and then crawling into bed, I'm..." Her throat's closed up. "I'm glad I get to do it with you. That we get to recover together." She tries to clear her throat but it makes it worse and, oh god, she's just gonna cry in the middle of this chalet on the most perfect day of her existence, isn't she? "I'm glad we're here."

"Kate," he murmurs, squeezing her fingers. She finally lets go of the warmth of the mug to clasp his hands properly. "I'm more in love with you now than I've ever been."

She tries to open her mouth to respond and all that comes out is, horrifying, a very guttural word that sounds distinctly like, "Ditto." Castle's lip twitches, and she can feel hers respond, and then, well.

They're just giggling messes all over again.

/

"So I got your book today," she pipes up a few days later from the kitchen, home only minutes before from her weekly check-up with her doctor. One hand is weighing heavily against the counter for support, but she's managed pretty well so far; they're doing well.

Adorably, Castle's head pops up from behind the couch, eyes bleary, as though he'd fallen asleep. Well, actually, he probably had.

"My _Christmas_ book?" A grin stretches across his mouth.

"That's the one."

"Huh." He's playing it so casual, but he looks pretty pleased with himself. Kate has the vaguest sense of where this is going. "Aren't we late this year."

" _Late?_ " she says indignantly. "Excuse me, I have two weeks left. _And_ I planned this, like, four months ago." She didn't, but there's no need for him to be so... adorably smug.

"Suuuuuure you did." That smirk of his is just... infuriating. And adorable. Damn, when did she start thinking of her husband as _cute?_

"Oh, sorry, Mr. Perfect. Not all of us can walk to the bookstore without taking a break."

There's a horrifying, charged energy in the air where Kate feels like maybe everything could fall apart, but Castle just rolls right past that with a laugh (that, she notes proudly, sounds a little more like a honk, and... damn. Even the honk is cute.) "I can't help that I'm the picture of athleticism, Kate."

"' _The picture of athleticism?'_ You sounded, truthfully, like a dying walrus getting out of bed this morning."

He's finally sitting up on the couch, turning around to look at her with a wide grin. "A _dying walrus?_ Great visual, but wow, Beckett, low blow. You could've at least given me a dying _porpoise,_ the most rugged animal of the sea—"

"The _porpoise_ is the most rugged animal of the sea? I see now why you call yourself ruggedly handsome, that's a pretty low bar to cross. Adorable, maybe, but _rugged_ —"

"They are rugged!" He goes to stand, probably in some sort of attempt at indignation, but when he gets off the couch the same noise—the dying walrus noise—squeezes past his lips and he keels over and she thinks, for one horrifying second, that he's gonna need to go back to the hospital, that the pneumonia is back, that he'll be wheeled back into surgery and she'll have to squeeze herself into one of those damn hospital chairs for hours because she'll be damned if she's going home even though the doctors explicitly _said_ she'd need softer support than those chairs—

But no. He's laughing, loudly, as he slips slowly to the floor. She makes her way over to him as he finally catches his breath. "Dying walrus," he repeats, and this time it's an acknowledgement. "Pretty spot on."

"I dunno, Castle, it felt very porpoise-like to me. _Very_ rugged." And then, blushing slightly, even though they're married, even though he compliments her all the time, she adds, "Pretty adorable, too."

His mouth opens a little, and then he, too, goes bright red. "You know what they say about wise fish," he finally manages.

She knows where this is going, but she gives it to him anyway: "What?"

"No wise fish ever goes anywhere without a porpoise."

There's a chuckle—less honk-like this time—and then, breathlessly, she leans in to kiss him, both of them sitting on the floor with their backs to the couch, pleased with themselves and with the season and with the glittering lights of their loft. "Oh, Castle, I'm so in love with you," she manages.

/

It's less chilly as Christmas draws nearer, only just sub-zero, and although they walk the streets regularly in the weeks leading up to the holiday as part of their PT, it doesn't really feel _Christmassy_ until the Eve itself finally rolls around. The decorations are still lovely ("Minimalist," Alexis notes when she's there. "That's very 'in' this year," and Kate was pleased even though it was truly minimalist or bust, decoration-wise) and the season is still brisk, their short little tree situated beautifully in the foyer, but even though they'd exhausted their repertoire of decent seasonal movies, there's something about Christmas Eve itself that just... brings the whole thing together.

Sitting in Castle's office, late into the evening, Kate looks out into the loft and watches the glittering lights. They'd just finished _How the Grinch Stole Christmas,_ and the closing notes of the song are stuck in her head on a loop as she watches Castle fumble out into their bedroom to grab their gifts.

 _Just so long as we have_ _we_ , she sings softly under her breath, watching, delightedly, the cute little wriggle of her husband's ass as he hunts the presents down.

"I could've sworn that we stuck them under the bed," he shouts, almost upside down as he peers under the bed. He makes his way upright again with only a faint wheeze before darting (slowly) across the room to the closet. "Are they in the closet? How could we have put them on the shelf, I can't even lift my arms above my head, there's no way— Oh." He appears back in the doorway. "Are you Superwoman? How did you manage to get those up there?"

"Alexis," she offers, "And yes, I am Superwoman, thanks."

He beams at her ( _welcome, Christmas, bring your light_ ) and plops—plops!—down on the couch next to her, two small rectangular gifts grasped in each hand.

"This one's yours," he says, shoving the one clad in starry wrapping paper into her hand—leftover, she presumes, from last year's space-themed Christmas. "And it's your turn to open first, so..."

"It is not!" It bubbles out of her automatically, always a little on the defence, before she grins. "Oh. It is."

She peels the wrapping paper off slowly, preserving it still, before flipping it over and revealing the book. Immediately, she whips to face him. "You cheat!"

"What?"

"You teased me for buying mine _two weeks ago_ when you clearly just bought this, I _swear_ —" She's laughing as she says it, but he's chuckling, too, pulling out the gently-used copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ from between her hands.

"I didn't, I swear. This is from Mother's collection," he laughs, flipping the book open to reveal the neatly-scrawled 'Martha Rodgers' on the opening page. Actually, a little _too_ neat; it looks like the practiced, too-perfect scrawl of a child, the letters a little too looping and large in places.

"Is that your writing?"

"Little Rick's writing, yeah. It was Mother's book, I was in a phase about _owning_ things and I wanted everything labelled if it was ours, so I wrote it in."

Kate can picture it perfectly: Rick Castle, eight or nine, panicked about being evicted again, about losing all of his worldly possessions, and so carefully scrawling his name in everything he owned so people knew it was his and then, when that was done, doing the same for his mother's possessions because he wanted her to have the things she cared about, too. Grown-up Castle, sitting next to her, shifts a little to support her torso and she leans in, presses her lips to his cheek. "Did Martha give this to you for me?" she asks, feeling pleasantly buzzed by the wine on the table in front of her and by the man and the quiet hour and the whisper of the season and the idea of a miniature Castle running around scrawling his name in things.

"Ah, no," he chuckles, "I stole this in high school. I went through a Carroll phase. I was a big fan of _The Hunting of the Snark._ "

"Didn't have to look hard to find the snark, I bet."

"Me, snarky? Never," he teases.

She turns her attention back to the book, pressing a hand carefully over the cover. It's aged, sure, but beautifully bound and—even though Kate Beckett doesn't necessarily _believe_ in these things—it's almost like she can feel the love of its previous owners through the cover. "A thief, huh?" she murmurs, eyes still on the book. "I might have to arrest you."

"You'd have to come to jail with me," he teases, moving in closer to kiss her so, so gently.

"Why's that?"

"Well, if I'm the ruggedly handsome porpoise, that would make you one wise fish."

"Hmm, I like that," she murmurs, kissing him again because she can and because her abdominal muscles barely twitch and because things are different and better. "And, being a wise fish, I'd never go anywhere without my porpoise."

"Is that so?"

"Mmhmm." She carefully throws a leg over his lap.

/

It takes a while for them to get back to their books, to their Christmas Eve tradition, and when they do they're laying on the couch, Castle breathing very, very carefully as he tries to settle a blanket over their bodies. Kate waits it out, patient with him and with the knowledge that they're healing, that things will go back to normal even with this new normal, until it returns to a healthy rhythm.

Pleasantly boneless and exhausted, she listens to the wheeze with her ear at his chest as it settles, settles, and stops.

"I loved the book," she finally notes, when she feels confident that Castle can respond. It's an art, a dance, finding their way with each other; they're both very good at it, and she's been thinking lately that she thought there was a depth to trust, a bottom point, but with every new _different_ she finds that she trusts her husband more. "It was one of my favourites, as a kid."

"Mine, too. I wrote more than a few papers on that bad-boy," he notes. She pictures tall, lanky, teenage Rick Castle reading his book and making notes in the margins. What a nerd. "'It's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.'" He's reciting the quote from the book even as he presses a kiss to her hair, to her cheek, to the curve of her ear, contorting his body in some interesting display of _Look how healthy I'm getting_.

"'Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'" Kate chimes in, looking at him as intently as she can. His eyes widen, like he's suddenly realized they're talking in specifics and not in _Alice in Wonderland_ anymore. It's like falling back on old habits, but still, it's different, and it's _good_.

"'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,'" he plays along.

"'I don't much care where...'" she adds, her smile small and pleased.

"'Then it doesn't matter which way you go.'"

"'...So long as I get somewhere.'"

"'Oh, you're sure to do that, if only you walk long enough.'" Castle pauses, takes a deep breath, then adds, "Where do you want to go, Kate?"

It takes a little effort, a little more than she'd care for, warm as she is under the blankets with Castle, but she leans forward to grab his gift off the table, presses it into his hands, and says, confidently, "Forward."

He gives her a curious look, but pleased, too, like he knows where this is going. It's a little fumbling, prone as they both are, but he gets the wrapping paper off and lifts his arm just high enough to bring the book in his line of sight.

And then he drops it back down.

"Kate Beckett," he finally says, after a moment of charged energy. "I never would have pegged you for a cliche."

She laughs at that, heartily, enjoying the feeling of his skin on hers, of his heartbeat in her ear as he puts the clues together. "It's not a cliche, Castle, it's a _classic._ "

"Debatable, if it got a movie adaptation," he murmurs, leaning over to drop _What to Expect When You're Expecting_ back on the table before dropping back to hug her close. "Expecting, huh?"

"I know things are different," she starts, because she's been practicing this for _two weeks_ already, and she has a speech prepared, and because the doctor said everything was good when she found out at her check-up. "But they're good, right?"

"Kate, they're _so_ good. We're healing—"

"Mostly healed," she pipes in.

"And we're happy. And we're together."

"We're together." It's a sigh on her lips but it feels happy, perfect, _magical_.

"You'll go back to the precinct soon, if you want to. Your PT is going so well."

"You'll come with?" she adds, because she wants him there, because things are different but it's not the circumstances, it's— They've been through more now. They're stronger. They can sit in silences and it's companionship and love and partnership and happiness, and they chat well into the night, and he's seen her crying on the bathroom floor at two in the morning because she fell on her way in and couldn't get back up, and she's held his hand in the hospital bed and talked for him because he couldn't breathe on his own, and they've weathered the worst and come back quieter and different but _together_.

"Sure," he murmurs, moving over to press his lips to her hair again. "We're expecting." He sounds dumbstruck, pleased.

"Somebody knocked me up, yeah."

"Hmm, wonder who that could be?"

"It's the greatest mystery of our time." She sighs, already mostly asleep on his chest but still with words to say. "When I found out, it was... the best. A tiny little Christmas miracle. I'm terrible at secrets now, I've been _dying_ to tell you—" He chuckles, softly, like he's falling asleep too. "—but I wanted you to have this moment. On Christmas Eve. These books say _I had an experience with this story and I want you to have it too,_ and, Castle... I want this experience together. And you couldn't be there when I actually found out because you didn't have an appointment that day and we couldn't have known, so... this is it. Your experience."

"It's the best one yet, Kate," he murmurs, sounding a little choked up even in his sleepiness. "Things are different, but they're good, and this is... amazing." He chuckles, adds, "Quite a build-up to this _experience,_ too, I might add. I do appreciate you giving me a very thorough overview of what lead to the need for the book before you actually gave it to me." He tickles her bare waist as she squirms delightfully, and they dissolve into giggles all over again.

"I'm nothing if not thorough," she retaliates, stretching up painfully to kiss the scruff of his chin, the curve of his nose, and, finally, his mouth.

" _So_ thorough," he mumbles around the kiss. He pulls away after a second, eyes her softly. "We're gonna have a baby."

"We're gonna have a baby," she repeats, heart flipping in her chest even as she can feel his do the same beneath her.

"So different," he chuckles.

" _So_ good."

They're grinning like idiots at each other, smiling to the calm sound of snowflakes covering the ground below, to the soft whisper of the wind. "There's no way you'll top this next year," he whispers, pressing that smile to hers.

"Eh, we'll see. I can try."

"2017 is going to be _so_ good. Back to the precinct, back to our lives, but also—"

"Different," they say together.

"And a baby," he whispers, his throat closing up on him. " _Kate._ I'm so glad we're here. That we made it. That we're healing, together."

"Not going anywhere without you, porpoise," she murmurs, and then they _do_ fall asleep, exhausted and pleased and... good. Better.

Perfect.

* * *

Books:

 _Alice in Wonderland,_ by Lewis Carroll (so many quotes, I'm so sorry).

 _What to Expect When You're Expecting,_ by Heidi Murkoff


End file.
